There you may see the idol stand
With mirror in his wanton hand;
Above, below, now here, now there,
He throws about the sunny glare:

Crowds pant, and press to seize the prize,
The gay delusion of their eyes.

When Fancy tries her limning skill
To draw and colour at her will,
And raise and round the figure well,
And show her talent to excel;

I guard my heart, lest it should woo
Unreal beauties Fancy drew,
And, disappointed, feel despair
At loss of things, that never were.
When I lean politicians mark
Grazing on ether in the Park;
Who, e'er on wing, with open throats
Fly at debates, expresses, votes,
Just in the manner swallows use,
Catching their airy food of news;
Whose latrant stomachs oft molest
The deep-laid plans their dreams suggest ;
Or see some poet pensive sit,
Fondly mistaking Spleen for Wit:

Who, though short-winded, still will aim
To sound the epic trump of Fame;
Who still ou Phœbus' smiles will dote,
Nor learn conviction from his coat;
I bless my stars, I never knew
Whimsies, which, close pursued, undo,
And have from old experience been
Both parent and the child of Spleen.
These subjects of Apollo's state,
Who from false fire derive their fate,

K

With airy purchases undone

Of lands, which noue lend money on,
Born dull, had follow'd thriving ways,
Nor lost one hour to gather bays.
Their fancies first delirious grew,

And scenes ideal took for true.
Fine to the sight Parnassus lies,

And with false prospects cheats their eyes:
The fabled gods the poets sing,

A season of perpetual spring,

Brooks, flowery fields, and groves of trees,
Affording sweets and similes,

Gay dreams inspired in myrtle bowers,
And wreaths of undecaying flowers,
Apollo's harp with airs divine,
The sacred music of the Nine,
Views of the temple raised to Fame,
And for a vacant niche proud aim,
Ravish their souls, and plainly show
What Fancy's sketching power can do.
They will attempt the mountain steep,
Where on the top, like dreams in sleep,
The Muse's revelations show,

That find men crack'd, or make them so.
You, friend, like me, the trade of rhyme
Avoid, elaborate waste of time,
Nor are content to be undone,
To pass for Phoebus' crazy son.
Poems, the hop-grounds of the brain,
Afford the most uncertain gain;
And lotteries never tempt the wise,
With blanks so many to a prize.
I only transient visits pay,
Meeting the Muses in my way,

Scarce known to the fastidious dames,
Nor skill'd to call them by their names.
Nor can their passports, in these days,
Your profit warrant, or your praise.
On poems by their dictates writ,
Critics, as sworn appraisers, sit;
And mere upholsterers, in a trice
On gems and paintings set a price.
These tailoring artists, for our lays
Invent cramp'd rules, and with strait stays
Striving free Nature's shape to hit,
Emaciate sense, before they fit.

A common place, and many friends,
Can serve the plagiary's ends,
Whose easy vamping talent lies,
First wit to pilfer, then disguise.
Thus some devoid of art and skill
To search the mine on Pindus' hill,
Proud to aspire and workmen grow,
By genius doom'd to stay below,
For their own digging show the town
Wit's treasure brought by others down.
Some wanting, if they find a mine,
An artist's judgment to refine,
On fame precipitately fix'd,
The ore with baser metals mix'd
Melt down, impatient of delay,
And call the vicious mass a play.
All these engage, to serve their ends,
A band select of trusty friends,
Who, lesson'd right, extol the thing,
As Psapho1 taught his birds to sing;

1 Psapho was a Libyan, who, desiring to be accounted a god, effected it by this invention; he took young birds, and

Then to the ladies they submit,
Returning officers on wit:

A crowded house their presence draws,
And on the beaux imposes laws,
A judgment in its favour ends,
When all the pannel are its friends :
Their natures, merciful and mild,
Have from mere pity saved the child;
In bulrush-ark the bantling found
Helpless, and ready to be drown'd,
They have preserved by kind support,
And brought the baby-muse to court.

But there's a youth' that you can name,
Who needs no leading-strings to fame,
Whose quick maturity of brain
The birth of Pallas may explain :
Dreaming of whose depending fate,
I heard Melpomene debate :-

This, this is he, that was foretold
Should emulate our Greeks of old.
Inspired by me with sacred art,
He sings, and rules the varied heart;
If Jove's dread anger he rehearse,
We hear the thunder in his verse;
If he describes love turn'd to rage,
The Furies riot in his page;
If he fair liberty and law,
By ruffian power expiring, draw,

taught them to sing, Psapho is a god.' perfect in their lesson, he let them fly; learning the same ditty, repeated it in

When they were and other birds the woods; on

which his countrymen offered sacrifice to him, and considered him as a deity.

'Mr. Glover, the excellent author of Leonidas.

The keener passions then engage
Aright, and sanctify their rage;

If he attempt disastrous love,

We hear those plaints that wound the grove:
Within the kinder passions glow,

And tears distill'd from pity flow.'
From the bright vision I descend,
And my deserted theme attend.

Me never did ambition seize,
Strange fever, most inflamed by ease!
The active lunacy of pride,

That courts jilt Fortune for a bride,
This paradise tree, so fair and high,
I view with no aspiring eye:

Like aspen shake the restless leaves,
And Sodom-fruit our pains deceives,
Whence frequent falls give no surprise,
But fits of Spleen call'd growing wise.
Greatness, in glittering forms display'd,
Affects weak eyes much used to shade,
And by its falsely-envied scene
Gives self-debasing fits of Spleen.
We should be pleased that things are so,
Who do for nothing see the show,
And, middle-sized, can pass between
Life's hubbub safe, because unseen;
And midst the glare of greatness trace
A watery sun-shine in the face,
And pleasure fled to, to redress
The sad fatigue of idleness.

Contentment, parent of delight!
So much a stranger to our sight,
Say, goddess, in what happy place
Mortals behold thy blooming face;